Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions. By Wahab Raofi In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected. That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners. Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex. Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer. Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be. The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves. The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity. Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot. That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities. I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures. The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice. Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's. Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

 

• Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

  Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

  By Wahab Raofi

  In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

  That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

  Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

  Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

  Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

  The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

  The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

  Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way 

  That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

  I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent 

  The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their h

  Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

  Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

  
  

  • Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

    Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

    By Wahab Raofi

    In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

    That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

    Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

    Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

    Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

    The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

    The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

    Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

    That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

    I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

    The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.

    Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

    Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

    
    

  • Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

    Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

    By Wahab Raofi

    In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

    That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

    Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

    Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

    Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

    The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

    The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

    Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

    That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

    I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

    The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.

    Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

    Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

    
    

  • Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

    Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

    By Wahab Raofi

    In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

    That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

    Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

    Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

    Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

    The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

    The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

    Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

    That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

    I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

    The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.

    Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

    Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

    
    

  • Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

    Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

    By Wahab Raofi

    In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

    That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

    Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

    Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

    Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

    The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

    The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

    Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

    That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

    I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

    The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.

    Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

    Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

    
    

• istories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is 

• • Israel's Arab Citizens Are Claiming a Stake in the Country

    Their record gains at the ballot box offer a lesson for a Middle East divided by ethnicity and religion: democracy can turn differences into terms for coexistence, but only under the right conditions.

    By Wahab Raofi

    In Israel's October 27 election, Arab-led parties won a record 19 seats in the 120-member Knesset, nearly doubling their previous representation. The completed vote count left neither major political bloc with a majority. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's bloc won 53 seats, while the main opposition bloc secured 48. Neither can reach the 61 seats needed to govern without support from outside its ranks. Netanyahu's camp has responded by raising allegations of election interference involving Arab-led parties, claims election officials have rejected.

    That reaction is part of the story. The result suggests that a growing number of Arab citizens, who make up roughly one-fifth of Israel's population, want a meaningful stake in the country where they live. The response to their electoral success shows how far Israel still is from accepting them as equal political partners.

    Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern political Zionism, envisioned a Jewish homeland built on modern institutions and the ideals of European society. David Ben-Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, sought to build a prosperous, modern state with universities, theaters, scientific achievement and democratic institutions. When Israel declared independence in 1948, its founders promised equality of social and political rights to all inhabitants, regardless of religion, race or sex.

    Seventy-eight years later, that promise remains unfulfilled. Arab citizens have long had the right to vote and serve in parliament, but they have faced discrimination, unequal public investment and economic disadvantage. Their communities suffer from violent crime and inadequate public services. In 2018, the Nation-State Law established Hebrew as Israel's official language and downgraded Arabic to a language with special status. Critics argued that the law wrote a hierarchy of citizenship into the country's basic legal framework. The tension between Israel's Jewish national identity and its democratic promise has rarely been plainer.

    Against that background, the strategies of Arab political leaders matter, and they are not uniform. Mansour Abbas, leader of Ra'am, which won eight seats, argues for pragmatism: join governments and negotiate concrete improvements in Arab communities' daily lives. In 2021, Ra'am became the first independent Arab party to join an Israeli governing coalition. That was a real departure from a politics of exclusion, but the coalition collapsed within a year, a reminder of how fragile such partnerships can be.

    The Joint List, which won 11 seats and is now the larger Arab bloc, has historically stayed outside governing coalitions and pressed its case from the opposition benches. Whether it will change course, and whether Ra'am's approach or the Joint List's will prevail among Arab voters, may shape the next phase of Israeli politics more than the seat totals themselves.

    The other half of the equation is Jewish politics. Some opposition leaders are weighing cooperation with Arab parties, but others resist, complicating efforts to form a government. A coalition that depends on Arab votes is one thing; a government that treats Arab parties as legitimate partners is another. If Israeli politics cannot make room for that distinction, the record result will look less like a turning point than a missed opportunity.

    Still, the direction of change matters. Across universities, hospitals, workplaces and businesses, Arab and Jewish Israelis increasingly share institutions and professional spaces. These everyday relationships offer another foundation for political coexistence. Political participation, however, is not a substitute for justice. Nor does it resolve the Palestinian question or the conflict in the occupied territories, whose residents have no vote in Israeli elections. That question is beyond the scope of this essay. But participation offers a peaceful way of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

    That is the lesson for the wider region, with an important qualification. For generations, leaders across the Middle East have treated ethnic and religious differences as grounds for division, and authoritarian governments have often maintained power by presenting other communities as threats. Democracy offers an alternative, but elections alone do not deliver it. Lebanon's sectarian power-sharing and post-2003 Iraq show that competitive politics can harden communal lines when institutions are weak. Democracy helps different communities share power and responsibility only when it rests on equal citizenship, independent courts, the rule of law and real protection for minorities.

    I grew up in a Muslim family in Afghanistan, where Jews were often portrayed as enemies of Muslims. Yet I remember Jewish families who took part in commerce and held respectable positions. Their presence challenged the assumption that religious differences must prevent people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

    The comparison between Afghanistan and Israel is not exact. Their histories and circumstances are very different. But the principle is universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.

    Israel need not abandon its Jewish identity to become more inclusive. It must, however, accept that its Arab citizens are not outsiders but equal participants in deciding the country's future, and that their votes carry the same legitimacy as anyone else's.

    Democracy cannot erase history, but it can keep history from dictating the future. Israel's coming coalition negotiations will show whether it is willing to let that happen.

    
    

  of pressing grievances that exclusion and confrontation cannot.

• people from living and working together. But it also taught me a harder lesson. They were tolerated, not equal. Their security depended on the goodwill of those in power rather than on rights they could defend, and their community has since dwindled to almost nothing. Tolerance is a favor; citizenship is a right. Only citizenship endures.

• universal: people need not share a religion, an ethnicity or a historical narrative to share a country and its institutions. They need laws that protect their rights and a political system that gives them a voice.